As I left Irene and little Noelle on her back in the classroom lined with beds and the handful of quiet matrones passing their time in silent waiting, I worried. She is going to be so bored here. Everyone is just sitting around in this terrible cramped room doing nothing on the first afternoon. But she seemed fairly content as I left her for my French lesson. Upon returning, I could not find her among the other timid matrones.
"Where's Irene?" I asked.
"Oh, she left. Maybe she is washing".
Well Ok. Yet the next moment while passing by the dining hall I found her- no cultural shame- hanging out in what we like to call "the guy's corner". The janitors and shuttle drivers have a little TV where they like to sit around and be rowdy throughout the day. Irene had spotted our choffuer, Mussa, pulled herself a chair, and made herself comfortable sittin back, watching the soccer game, drinking tea, and joking with the guys. And they got a kick out of that little spitfire too. Yup- bean joke central.
It's been fun having Noelle around. He spotted me and calls me "Tata!" But he got wicked confused when a bunch of other white girls came up to him and started calling them all "Tata." He's terribly afraid of my friend Hunter, who keeps wanting to hold and play with him. But being one of the biggest, pastiest-white guys around, I can understand why he's frightening.
So Irene seems happy to be here. Though our sessions have not been that dense since her arrival, she's in to it, and is already walking around Tubaniso like she owns the place. And man does she like to talk! While the other matrones are sitting quietly in the car on the way to our field trip, she's yapping up a storm. "Why didn't that donkey get out of the road? These donkeys here are terrible. I think it's pregnant look at it. It's probably twins. What does it think it's doing? Driver, why don't you run it over? Then the other donkeys will see" And she just cracks herself up- and me too. But I think the other women are a bit intimidated by her, even the other volunteers. She's even made her marks with the trainers, who she throws her baby at if she has to fix her scarf or get her food. We'll see how the rest of the week goes. Thank God she's so enthusiastic!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Mud Wrestling
So there isn't too much to do at Tubaniso, our training center. Movies are great, card games- addicting, and working on project proposals is often cut short by the realization that these will be the last days we see our American pals- many of them until the end of our service.
Then what do we do with our time? Well, with a free Saturday afternoon, a couple volunteers put together a mud wrestling pit out in the garden. There were some settled rivalries and some entertaining moments as people were flipped and slipped- sometimes face down in yummy African mud. I myself was paired with the other smallest girl around here- Sarah- whom, may I added, I conquered. My bucket bath afterwords was quite difficult though, and I still have my muddy clothes hanging on a tree outside my hut. I'll get to those one of these days.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sama's Baptism
So we've just began the third and final week of in-service training. With not a lot on the schedual today, I hinted around that my host family's new baby was being baptized today and that though my village is close, it is hard for me to get there. So after some begging, pleading and bean jokes, I got myself a driver and a Peace Corps SUV to take me to Dombila for the event. It also worked out in everyone's favor because we also picked up Irene, who is spending this last week training with me here at Tubaniso.
My driver was a riot, and he actually seemed excited that he was going to get to crash our party. We pulled up to the health center first, and the fact that Irene was so happy to see me was just the boost I needed. Arriving at my family's compound was also quite a sight. I couldn't believe how many people were there- 50 or 60 I'd say. And my host mom was so surprised that I actually came after expressing my regrets that I would have to miss it due to training. It was great to see my posse of boys too, aparently they had been scheming when I was gone and came up to me with a brilliant idea. "Aminata- if you buy us candy..." (Oh man here we go again)..."if you buy us candy, we'll sell it at school to the other kids and then we'll give the money back to you." Hmm, have I created little enterprisers? Eh, probably not. They just want to be the cool kids with the pockets full of goodies at school.
So a Malian Muslim baptism- not quite the same as Fr. Gross holding up a kid all in white at St. Paul of the cross. When things got rolling, all the women began to move in a slow, tight, dance circle around a quartet of drummers. Little by little, a line would break of and the women would continue their dance-walk into the house to greet the new baby laying on the bed. As the music picked up, some women went in the middle to go solo. Of course, I was pushed in. They were doing two dances there- one that was like a crazy flapping airplaine-bird, and the other was your everyday tuck jumps. I opted for the tuckjumps. Apartently they were quite impressive. But I soon realized that none of the younger girls were participating. This dance was for mothers only. Ooops. It's ok, Irene says, you have a kid, Fatima (referring to my cardboard baby). Too bad it's dead, i.e. ripped to chards in the field.
So here comes the peculiar part. The godparents of the child stand in the middle of the circle and get their hands tied behind their backs with rope. Then they roll around on the ground. Yup, right in the dirt. Still haven't figured that one out. Next is usually the naming. A special designated person will make the long awaited announcement. What is this baby's name? I refer to this event as a baptism, but what it really is is a "naming ceremony." Muslims don't name their children until a week after they are born, at which time they host this event. Sama however was a special case. Though she was due about a week ago, she was born in Novemeber two months premature. Her twin sister was a still born and her birth weight- 2lbs- was dangerously low. She was also born around the busy Tabaski holiday season, so my host family decided to wait until things settled down, and she was over the hump of gaining some strength. "Sama"- the name they gave her a week after her birth- means "gift".
So I greeted, danced, did my thing, and actually felt incredibly renewed, comfortable, and back to myself. Honestly, these two weeks haven't been as easy as I expected. After recovering from being sick, I still felt out of my element here. It's been nice being with other volunteers, but at times our formerly steady relationships have been tested or simply welded as we ourselves are tested and changing. It's even been difficult expressing myself in English, and finding satisfation in long days of lectures. Now this doesn't mean I want to stay in Mali my whole life or that I'm in any way rejecting American culture. It just means I'm still in an identity search while estabilishing my role in two very differnt worlds. I will come back to the states changed, and I will need time adjusting I know. But being here has also reminded me that I'm not the strange alien my village thinks I am, but that there are 70 people with all the same feelings I have. Every once in a while though, it's nice to go back and be that strange alien. And that's what today was for me.
My driver was a riot, and he actually seemed excited that he was going to get to crash our party. We pulled up to the health center first, and the fact that Irene was so happy to see me was just the boost I needed. Arriving at my family's compound was also quite a sight. I couldn't believe how many people were there- 50 or 60 I'd say. And my host mom was so surprised that I actually came after expressing my regrets that I would have to miss it due to training. It was great to see my posse of boys too, aparently they had been scheming when I was gone and came up to me with a brilliant idea. "Aminata- if you buy us candy..." (Oh man here we go again)..."if you buy us candy, we'll sell it at school to the other kids and then we'll give the money back to you." Hmm, have I created little enterprisers? Eh, probably not. They just want to be the cool kids with the pockets full of goodies at school.
So a Malian Muslim baptism- not quite the same as Fr. Gross holding up a kid all in white at St. Paul of the cross. When things got rolling, all the women began to move in a slow, tight, dance circle around a quartet of drummers. Little by little, a line would break of and the women would continue their dance-walk into the house to greet the new baby laying on the bed. As the music picked up, some women went in the middle to go solo. Of course, I was pushed in. They were doing two dances there- one that was like a crazy flapping airplaine-bird, and the other was your everyday tuck jumps. I opted for the tuckjumps. Apartently they were quite impressive. But I soon realized that none of the younger girls were participating. This dance was for mothers only. Ooops. It's ok, Irene says, you have a kid, Fatima (referring to my cardboard baby). Too bad it's dead, i.e. ripped to chards in the field.
So here comes the peculiar part. The godparents of the child stand in the middle of the circle and get their hands tied behind their backs with rope. Then they roll around on the ground. Yup, right in the dirt. Still haven't figured that one out. Next is usually the naming. A special designated person will make the long awaited announcement. What is this baby's name? I refer to this event as a baptism, but what it really is is a "naming ceremony." Muslims don't name their children until a week after they are born, at which time they host this event. Sama however was a special case. Though she was due about a week ago, she was born in Novemeber two months premature. Her twin sister was a still born and her birth weight- 2lbs- was dangerously low. She was also born around the busy Tabaski holiday season, so my host family decided to wait until things settled down, and she was over the hump of gaining some strength. "Sama"- the name they gave her a week after her birth- means "gift".
So I greeted, danced, did my thing, and actually felt incredibly renewed, comfortable, and back to myself. Honestly, these two weeks haven't been as easy as I expected. After recovering from being sick, I still felt out of my element here. It's been nice being with other volunteers, but at times our formerly steady relationships have been tested or simply welded as we ourselves are tested and changing. It's even been difficult expressing myself in English, and finding satisfation in long days of lectures. Now this doesn't mean I want to stay in Mali my whole life or that I'm in any way rejecting American culture. It just means I'm still in an identity search while estabilishing my role in two very differnt worlds. I will come back to the states changed, and I will need time adjusting I know. But being here has also reminded me that I'm not the strange alien my village thinks I am, but that there are 70 people with all the same feelings I have. Every once in a while though, it's nice to go back and be that strange alien. And that's what today was for me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
In between here and there
So I'm back in America while still being in Mali. Last night, all of us went to the American club in Bamako to watch the inauguration of our first African-American president. Played some volleyball, had a great chicken sandwhich- it was almost like being at a backyard picnic in the states.
But as excited as I was to get a break from the village, it is quite strange being back at the training center. After so many months among Malians, I don't really know how to act among large groups of Americans any more. I'm terribly awkward and uncomfortable, but I'm not alone in that. July, August training, nighttime at Tubaniso was always a party- playing cards, watching movies, staying up to socialize or going out to have a drink. Now its like people will have dinner, chat a bit and exclaim, "Well, my book is getting good, I think I'll go read a bit by myself in my hut." And with the 10 people from our stage that left peace corps for America, things are much quieter. Of course we still all have a good time around here, it's not all social anxiety. It's just another adjustment that is a bit difficult. And then it's back to village in another 12 days. Adjustment again. I'll tell you, I'm pretty sick of adjustments.
In any case, I feel like I'm learning quite a bit with my classes. It's a bit overwhelming, especially trying to attempt some of these things in a site where no peace corps volunteer has gone before, but I just gotta give it my best you know? Today we did a practice school lesson at a local school. It was great to be back among Malian kids- I haven't taught at Dombila's school yet, but now I know what to do when I'm talking to sixth graders about why you should poop in the negen or answering 9th grader's questions about AIDS. No, sorry buddy, you can't use the same condom twice.
So we've learned everything from how to dry fruit and leaves and make natural protien powder to how to encourage our homolouges to improve prenatal counseling. Before I leave here, I'm going to post a list of upcoming projects so you can start following my progress. Oh progress. It's something I long for but only see small glimpses of. Confidence. That's all I really need. It took me until the end of the inauguration to realize that when Obama called Americans to dust themselves off and rebuild the country that- oh yeah, I'm part of this too. Even though I'm not there, even though I feel like an awkward middle schooler trying to do my nails with white girls, stumbling on my words while trying to say something intelligent in English, trying to eat salad with a fork (ok I never did that in the states anyway...), trying to actually keep myself looking presentable (almost given up on that too), I'm still American. No, I don't turn my computer on everyday, I choose to heat up water for a bucket bath rather than brave the cold showers, I usually fall asleep during the movies and I find myself seeking out my Malian teachers to drink sugary tea at night. But I'm still American. And I'm proud to be one in this historic era alongside my countrymen- here and in the motherland :).
Missing you all and wishing you well in the cold,
Emily
REQUEST-
If anyone has a used simple laptop that runs well and can do just basic internet and microsoft office, would you email me? emilyahurley@gmail.com. My language teacher is learning basic computer skills and needs some practice. She is looking for one and can pay about $100-150 for it. If it works out, it can be sent with my parent when they come in Feburary. Thanks!
But as excited as I was to get a break from the village, it is quite strange being back at the training center. After so many months among Malians, I don't really know how to act among large groups of Americans any more. I'm terribly awkward and uncomfortable, but I'm not alone in that. July, August training, nighttime at Tubaniso was always a party- playing cards, watching movies, staying up to socialize or going out to have a drink. Now its like people will have dinner, chat a bit and exclaim, "Well, my book is getting good, I think I'll go read a bit by myself in my hut." And with the 10 people from our stage that left peace corps for America, things are much quieter. Of course we still all have a good time around here, it's not all social anxiety. It's just another adjustment that is a bit difficult. And then it's back to village in another 12 days. Adjustment again. I'll tell you, I'm pretty sick of adjustments.
In any case, I feel like I'm learning quite a bit with my classes. It's a bit overwhelming, especially trying to attempt some of these things in a site where no peace corps volunteer has gone before, but I just gotta give it my best you know? Today we did a practice school lesson at a local school. It was great to be back among Malian kids- I haven't taught at Dombila's school yet, but now I know what to do when I'm talking to sixth graders about why you should poop in the negen or answering 9th grader's questions about AIDS. No, sorry buddy, you can't use the same condom twice.
So we've learned everything from how to dry fruit and leaves and make natural protien powder to how to encourage our homolouges to improve prenatal counseling. Before I leave here, I'm going to post a list of upcoming projects so you can start following my progress. Oh progress. It's something I long for but only see small glimpses of. Confidence. That's all I really need. It took me until the end of the inauguration to realize that when Obama called Americans to dust themselves off and rebuild the country that- oh yeah, I'm part of this too. Even though I'm not there, even though I feel like an awkward middle schooler trying to do my nails with white girls, stumbling on my words while trying to say something intelligent in English, trying to eat salad with a fork (ok I never did that in the states anyway...), trying to actually keep myself looking presentable (almost given up on that too), I'm still American. No, I don't turn my computer on everyday, I choose to heat up water for a bucket bath rather than brave the cold showers, I usually fall asleep during the movies and I find myself seeking out my Malian teachers to drink sugary tea at night. But I'm still American. And I'm proud to be one in this historic era alongside my countrymen- here and in the motherland :).
Missing you all and wishing you well in the cold,
Emily
REQUEST-
If anyone has a used simple laptop that runs well and can do just basic internet and microsoft office, would you email me? emilyahurley@gmail.com. My language teacher is learning basic computer skills and needs some practice. She is looking for one and can pay about $100-150 for it. If it works out, it can be sent with my parent when they come in Feburary. Thanks!
Friday, January 16, 2009
In-Service Training
Back at Tubaniso for mid-service training. Talking to experts and fellow PCVs alike to design some serious projects for my village. It’s fun, but also kind of strange being around so many Americans all day- it takes a bit getting used to. I’m also going to some French and Bambara classes- its amazing how terrible my French has become and how easy it is now to speak Bambara. By the end of this three week training, I want to describe to you some of the big projects I am designing for Dombila. Until then, I hope to entertain you with some more details about life in Dombila.
K’an ben fo singe were! (Goodbye until next time!)
K’an ben fo singe were! (Goodbye until next time!)
A few short profiles
Here are some descriptions of my favorite people in Dombila- more to come in the coming weeks:
1) Cesalo- the youngest of my posse of boys. I love this picture because it looks like one of those “Save the African children” kind of things- like he’s this steadfast kid holding his seriously survival skills in the hardest of conditions. Alright, well he does have some hardships. But really- this kid’s a goof. Your run of the mill, 8 year old goof. If he was smiling in this picture, you’d see that he’s got these two crooked front teath that are way too big for him. He skips around pretending he is a zylophone player, making up little songs that always sound like “Dink-a-dink-ee-dink-a--dink-ee”, and he refuses to get up for school. The whole family will be eating the morning porriage outside and you’ll hear my host dad: “Ba?” (Cesalo’s nickname.) He grunts and moans from inside. “You going to school today?” More grunts and moans. “Get your lazy self up!”
2)Prookie Prookie
Say it outloud. It’s funnier. My coworker, Sali, is my age. A hip, single, stunning girl, always sporting some flashing earings or a new quaff of fake hair (very popular among Malian women). She caught on to the fact that I plucked my eyebrows, she asks me constantly to do them for her, which is a fun event. “Aminata! Prookie Prookie”- the phrase she uses for plucking which always comes in a high squeaky voice with her motioning to her eyebrows and squinting her eyes. It’s fun hanging out with Sali because its like being one of the girls again. When all the women are gone in from prenatal counsels, she’ll sneak on the scale to weigh herself. Barely 110 lbs, she squeals for joy when she gains weight. If she’s a little light, she’ll pout and make up some excuse, “Well it’s because I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten lunch yet.” Then I’ll step on the scale and she’ll congratulate me for being so fat. She has a little crush on Hunter, one of the other volunteers that came to visit my site all of 3 hours one September afternoon. One morning she exclaimed “Aminata! I figured out why Shakaboubakar doesn’t like me. I’m too skinny! Well that’s ok. If he marries me, he’ll take me to America, and I’ll get really fat.”
3) My host mother, Gneba, is in many ways a little too much like my mother from the United States. She is the woman of the house- and when she’s sifting her millet to make dinner- she is queen of the kitchen- and the rest of the family knows better than to get in the way of her work of art. (The major difference here is Gina’s chicken parm is much more of a work of art than Gneba’s “to”.)
And then I got sick. For about of week I was out with a fever, cough, all those wonderful cold things. My host mom forbids me to bathe without heating my water, from riding my bike without a dust mask, and especially- running. One day, I still had a cough but my body was feeling better, but Gneba had forbidden- FORBIDDEN me from going out for a run. It had been a week since I had done any sort of physical activity, so I was getting antsy. I was about to go out and jog in the fields, when she entered our consession- I hid behind my door. With a bunch of giggling, tattling children around all the time- this never works.
“Aminata- why are you hiding from me?”
I sheepishy showed myself and approached her with my head down.
“Take OFF your running shoes. Take OFF your running clothes and go sit down and drink some tea.”
“It’s really alright, I’m only running a little.”
“You are not smart, Aminata!”
I went out for 10 minutes, my lungs burning and my head pounding. I came back, threw off my running shoes, sat my but down and drank some tea with my host dad. The queen of the kichten was stiring the pot on the fire and looks over to me. “I told you so.”
The market at Dio
I have dubbed the market at Dio the most obnoxious place on earth. If I can avoid it, I do. Which is never. Every Saturday morning, I seem to find myself making the 7k trip to stock up on peanut butter, eggs, and whatever fruits are in season. Besides, since everybody in a radius of about 10 miles goes to Dio for market and Saturday, if I didn’t go, what the heck else would I do? Every woman magnetically flocks to Dio, walking miles and miles in lines like ducklings, with their babies sagging on their backs and large baskets of god-knows what on their heads. I always felt especially bad for the milk sellers. A whole utility bucket of milk is pretty hard to carry on your head. And if it falls- unlike other goods- its done. I was once on a soutraum- the brushie Malian form of transportation, with a milk seller. As always, people were crammed on top of each other. An unfortunate milk seller saw the fruit of her lengthy labor spill all over the vehicle’s floor, and the rest of us enjoyed a nice ride with curdling, un-pastersized, whole milk sloshing around the hot tin below our feet.
Anyway, the Dio market was obnoxious at first, when I was new to the area, and no one knew me. Everyone wanted to know who I was, where I came from, and most importantly, what I wanted to buy. All the yells of the kids, “Tubabu! Tubabu!” were easily ignored as well as the calls of the sellers, “Come here white woman! You buy this! You buy that!” Now, not only do they call to me, but I know about half of the people personally and to ignore them would be a put down.
“Aminata!”
Oh hi! How’s the market going?
“Don’t you want to buy some [insert good]”
Sorry, not buying it today.
[At this point, the conversation most always moves into joking cousin. If the person’s last name is amenable with mine, I am her sister, so why do I not buy? If it is a feuding last name, I am worthless because I eat beans. I have written before how useful bean jokes and joking cousins are to integrating into Malian culture. The joke that hasn’t gotten old in centuries- it still cracks people up every time. But really, to us Americans, it DOES get old after a while. To go from point A to point B in the market involves stopping to great EVERYONE, and appeasing them with the appropriate bean joke after a series of lengthy greetings- well, it gets exhausting.]
Strolling from bean joke to bean joke can be quite exhausting… I just want my freakin peanut butter!
In Dio, half of the people think that I am the Dio volunteer, Caroline, or Masaba. So I must answer to multiple names, and be especially on my toes when they call me the right name- this is a hint that I should know the person. So I almost always pretend I do, though getting people’s names right is still a chore.
If I do make it to the peanut butter, I find 5 women sitting under a hanger, side by side, all selling peanut butter- separately. It’s like the 4 gas stations on each corner of the intersection- but same price, quantity, and quality. If I buy from one, the others wonder why I didn’t buy from them. I should really try to keep track. “Are you going to make peanut butter sauce?” they ask- (The idea of a white girl cooking is apparently very funny).
“No,” another one will say, “These white girls- they put peanut butter on bread!”
And that just kills them up. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, watching sun go down, as I’m trying to decide if I can get everything I need and get back to Dombila.
I then go get my eggs from the butiki- this little arab boy works there who has a big crush on me, and always asks if I want the really big bag of powdered milk. Nice kid but very slow at math. Afterwords, I go get my fish from my fish man. He’s this old gruffy looking man who comes from the North region by the Niger river. The fish one can buy at a Malian market are blackened, dried, and curled up. Yup, hard and crispy as can be. And no, I don’t cook with these- I give them to my homolouge and my host family. But when I’m served one, steamed over a plate of rice- I think happy thoughts about Omega-3s and protein, close my eyes, shove it in my mouth and spit out the bones. The head is another story. So I greet my old smiley, squinty man, who gives me some of his fish and tells me how the roads were for his trip in the morning. I’d like to hang out and chill with him for a while, but unfortunately his stand is in the danger zone- the goat-meat guy’s zone.
It is at this point, after buying my fish, that without fail I will be grabbed by the goat meat guy. There are a couple of these guys that hang out, steaming a whole goat and selling little pieces of meat. This one’s a big, sweaty, boisterous fool with a little sly moustache. “My wife has come!-[that would be me]- Surely you buy meat today.” He takes my arm and leads me over to look at the beauty that is the bloody ribs of a newly slaughtered goat. Irresistible. Ever since I once bought a few pieces of meat to bring back to my family- he thinks I’m gonna buy him out every time.
Then it’s looking for bananas. For some reason, the banana sellers just can’t sit still. They don’t hang out on a little stand like the rest of people. They wander around (“yala-yala”) with the banana’s on their head- and there’s only a couple of them. So when you spot them it’s like Where’s Waldo- but they disappear into the crowd just as fast as you spot them. So I find myself pushing through the people on the road following the floating yellow head on the other side of the crowd.
Only to be bothered by the bus drivers.
On the road there are cars with stacks and stacks of goods on the top and van (soutrums) and their drivers bouncing around bugging people (especially me)- “Where are you going? Bamako! Kati! Bamako!” Well obviously, you must be going somewhere, you have a backpack on.
“Here. I’m staying here.”
No, you don’t understand white girl- where are you going? What car do you want to get on?
I don’t want to get in your junky car! I just want to find the banana lady!
And if I make it through all of this- I hit the road to Caroline’s house, greeting every single person with lengthy Bambara salutations on the way. Whether she’s there or not, I sit for a few minutes, catch my breath, and put my eggs in my bra (I figured out this is the only way they won’t break on my return bumpy bike ride.) I miss Wegmans.
Anyway, the Dio market was obnoxious at first, when I was new to the area, and no one knew me. Everyone wanted to know who I was, where I came from, and most importantly, what I wanted to buy. All the yells of the kids, “Tubabu! Tubabu!” were easily ignored as well as the calls of the sellers, “Come here white woman! You buy this! You buy that!” Now, not only do they call to me, but I know about half of the people personally and to ignore them would be a put down.
“Aminata!”
Oh hi! How’s the market going?
“Don’t you want to buy some [insert good]”
Sorry, not buying it today.
[At this point, the conversation most always moves into joking cousin. If the person’s last name is amenable with mine, I am her sister, so why do I not buy? If it is a feuding last name, I am worthless because I eat beans. I have written before how useful bean jokes and joking cousins are to integrating into Malian culture. The joke that hasn’t gotten old in centuries- it still cracks people up every time. But really, to us Americans, it DOES get old after a while. To go from point A to point B in the market involves stopping to great EVERYONE, and appeasing them with the appropriate bean joke after a series of lengthy greetings- well, it gets exhausting.]
Strolling from bean joke to bean joke can be quite exhausting… I just want my freakin peanut butter!
In Dio, half of the people think that I am the Dio volunteer, Caroline, or Masaba. So I must answer to multiple names, and be especially on my toes when they call me the right name- this is a hint that I should know the person. So I almost always pretend I do, though getting people’s names right is still a chore.
If I do make it to the peanut butter, I find 5 women sitting under a hanger, side by side, all selling peanut butter- separately. It’s like the 4 gas stations on each corner of the intersection- but same price, quantity, and quality. If I buy from one, the others wonder why I didn’t buy from them. I should really try to keep track. “Are you going to make peanut butter sauce?” they ask- (The idea of a white girl cooking is apparently very funny).
“No,” another one will say, “These white girls- they put peanut butter on bread!”
And that just kills them up. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, watching sun go down, as I’m trying to decide if I can get everything I need and get back to Dombila.
I then go get my eggs from the butiki- this little arab boy works there who has a big crush on me, and always asks if I want the really big bag of powdered milk. Nice kid but very slow at math. Afterwords, I go get my fish from my fish man. He’s this old gruffy looking man who comes from the North region by the Niger river. The fish one can buy at a Malian market are blackened, dried, and curled up. Yup, hard and crispy as can be. And no, I don’t cook with these- I give them to my homolouge and my host family. But when I’m served one, steamed over a plate of rice- I think happy thoughts about Omega-3s and protein, close my eyes, shove it in my mouth and spit out the bones. The head is another story. So I greet my old smiley, squinty man, who gives me some of his fish and tells me how the roads were for his trip in the morning. I’d like to hang out and chill with him for a while, but unfortunately his stand is in the danger zone- the goat-meat guy’s zone.
It is at this point, after buying my fish, that without fail I will be grabbed by the goat meat guy. There are a couple of these guys that hang out, steaming a whole goat and selling little pieces of meat. This one’s a big, sweaty, boisterous fool with a little sly moustache. “My wife has come!-[that would be me]- Surely you buy meat today.” He takes my arm and leads me over to look at the beauty that is the bloody ribs of a newly slaughtered goat. Irresistible. Ever since I once bought a few pieces of meat to bring back to my family- he thinks I’m gonna buy him out every time.
Then it’s looking for bananas. For some reason, the banana sellers just can’t sit still. They don’t hang out on a little stand like the rest of people. They wander around (“yala-yala”) with the banana’s on their head- and there’s only a couple of them. So when you spot them it’s like Where’s Waldo- but they disappear into the crowd just as fast as you spot them. So I find myself pushing through the people on the road following the floating yellow head on the other side of the crowd.
Only to be bothered by the bus drivers.
On the road there are cars with stacks and stacks of goods on the top and van (soutrums) and their drivers bouncing around bugging people (especially me)- “Where are you going? Bamako! Kati! Bamako!” Well obviously, you must be going somewhere, you have a backpack on.
“Here. I’m staying here.”
No, you don’t understand white girl- where are you going? What car do you want to get on?
I don’t want to get in your junky car! I just want to find the banana lady!
And if I make it through all of this- I hit the road to Caroline’s house, greeting every single person with lengthy Bambara salutations on the way. Whether she’s there or not, I sit for a few minutes, catch my breath, and put my eggs in my bra (I figured out this is the only way they won’t break on my return bumpy bike ride.) I miss Wegmans.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Slogblog
So I have computer access right now, but I’m just way to tired to write a blog. It sucks how the timing works out like that you know? I’m in Kati, attended the rotary club meeting last night to ask them for help on a water sanitation project I want to begin in Dombila. But I came down with a fever and a cold sort of thing- my head is spinning right now so please excuse the lack of details, the lack of stories in this blog. On Jan 12 I go for three weeks of training in Tubaniso- with daily access to spotty internet, I’ll be able to catch you up on all the adventures in Dombila. What I can say now is, I absolutely love my job. I am already starting to be rewarded by it. Babies are getting fatter, mothers are demonstrating understanding of good health practices (dooni dooni) and me and my homolouge Irene are communicating wonderfully. We make a great team and I’m having a blast out here every day. I celebrated Christmas three different days in three different locations (Falaje, Kati, Dombila)- dancing to the sounds of the African zylophones and drums. Lately, there’s just been a load of holidays around here, most recently ended with New Years. I attended a party in my village where the men had a really good time chillin inside, drinking tea, while us women cooked outside in the cold for about 6 hours. Thats African gender for ya. But hey, the food was good- chicken, fried plantains, even salad (though it was covered with oil and MSG). I myself made pizza paninis upon my supervisors request for “un plat special americain!. My new year’s resolution: wear sunscreen everyday.
So I hate to leave you without stories from the field, but please just take my word that it really has been an excellent week for me; I’m so excited about the direction my projects are beginning to take. I promise to have more for you next week (even ways you can begin to help me!) but for now, I just need to kinda let my mind go back into fighting this fever. Dombila wishes you a happy happy new year!
So I hate to leave you without stories from the field, but please just take my word that it really has been an excellent week for me; I’m so excited about the direction my projects are beginning to take. I promise to have more for you next week (even ways you can begin to help me!) but for now, I just need to kinda let my mind go back into fighting this fever. Dombila wishes you a happy happy new year!
Christmas 2008
Though nothing beats Christmas in Rochester, NY, Christmas 2008 is one that I will never forget. It is the first year that I wasn’t home for Christmas, and though I missed my family and loved ones and Christmas tradidtions terribly, it was kinda neat to do something new for a change. My parents will tell you that I always had many mixed emotions at Christmas time- the joy of the season being somewhat cluttered by guilt, disappointment with our culture’s materialism, and thoughts of what our brothers and sisters, the “have-nots” were doing. To celebrate Christmas alongside Malians and Americans alike, in a minimalist but bountiful way was a true blessing.
After stocking up on some goodies from the Western-style “supermaket” in Bamako, we made our way to Falaje, a rural Christian village about 80k outside of the capital. Dave Williams, a volunteer in Falaje, hosted 6 of us at his hut for a pig roast. Man, I’ve never seen so much work done for a good strip of pork. The guys built a brick roasting pit the two days before Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, they bought and slaughtered the pig (I conveniently was out for a run during that part), cut its hair, and let it marinate in a bucket of salt water over night. On Christmas day, we all took turns turning the metal pole we (the guys I should say) stuck through the pig and over the fire for a good three or four hours. The meat came out quite tasty, which is more than I can say about Chris’ attempt at blood soup (hey at least I tried it). All the gruesome details can be found on Chris’s new blog: notbalibutmalil.blogspot.com In the meantime, we snaked on watermelon, hot coco, popcorn, banana bread, Christmas cookies/candies/and fruit cakes that came from the states, and any other such things we happened to whip up. Basically, we spent two days cooking and eating, playing charades, and decorating the house for Christmas. A small, fake plastic Christmas tree was overshadowed by a chalk drawing on dave’s wall that we all “decorated” with our own drawings. Us girls made stockings out of an old teeshirt, and with decorative markers and Lindsay’s crocheting ability, actually came out quite nice. Combined with Christmas carols on the ipod and guitar, little silly presents of ketchup, slingshots, and homemade fruit jam really brought the Christmas spirit to our middle-of-nowhere corner of the world. Midnight mass in Falaje was incredible. There was a Bambara choir, singing the mass parts to traditional African beats, and I wore my new “Mary-and-Jesus compilee” that the priest in Kati gave me as a Christmas gift. On my way to Falaje, I also picked up some packages sent from you all that I excitedly opened on Christmas morning! A Christmas I’ll never forget, and my nostalgia for my family was comforted by the fact that I was among good and caring friends and that it would be less than two months before I see my parents. (FEB 16!) I’m so excited!
After stocking up on some goodies from the Western-style “supermaket” in Bamako, we made our way to Falaje, a rural Christian village about 80k outside of the capital. Dave Williams, a volunteer in Falaje, hosted 6 of us at his hut for a pig roast. Man, I’ve never seen so much work done for a good strip of pork. The guys built a brick roasting pit the two days before Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, they bought and slaughtered the pig (I conveniently was out for a run during that part), cut its hair, and let it marinate in a bucket of salt water over night. On Christmas day, we all took turns turning the metal pole we (the guys I should say) stuck through the pig and over the fire for a good three or four hours. The meat came out quite tasty, which is more than I can say about Chris’ attempt at blood soup (hey at least I tried it). All the gruesome details can be found on Chris’s new blog: notbalibutmalil.blogspot.com In the meantime, we snaked on watermelon, hot coco, popcorn, banana bread, Christmas cookies/candies/and fruit cakes that came from the states, and any other such things we happened to whip up. Basically, we spent two days cooking and eating, playing charades, and decorating the house for Christmas. A small, fake plastic Christmas tree was overshadowed by a chalk drawing on dave’s wall that we all “decorated” with our own drawings. Us girls made stockings out of an old teeshirt, and with decorative markers and Lindsay’s crocheting ability, actually came out quite nice. Combined with Christmas carols on the ipod and guitar, little silly presents of ketchup, slingshots, and homemade fruit jam really brought the Christmas spirit to our middle-of-nowhere corner of the world. Midnight mass in Falaje was incredible. There was a Bambara choir, singing the mass parts to traditional African beats, and I wore my new “Mary-and-Jesus compilee” that the priest in Kati gave me as a Christmas gift. On my way to Falaje, I also picked up some packages sent from you all that I excitedly opened on Christmas morning! A Christmas I’ll never forget, and my nostalgia for my family was comforted by the fact that I was among good and caring friends and that it would be less than two months before I see my parents. (FEB 16!) I’m so excited!
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